Translations
This page shows only poems with translations by Henry Wilberforce Clarke.
Ghazaliyat by Hafez, in translations by Henry Wilberforce Clarke
Ho! O Saki, pass around and offer the bowl: For love at first appeared easy, but difficulties have occurred.
The rectitude of work, where? and, I ruined where? Behold the distance of the Path, from where to where?
If that Bold One of Shiraz gain our heart, For His dark mole, I will give Samarkand and Bukhara.
O breeze! with softness speak to the beautiful fawn, Saying: Thou hast given to us desire for the mountain and the desert.
For God’s sake. O pious ones! forth from the hand, goeth my heart. For God’s sake: O the pain that the hidden mystery should be disclosed.
To the Sultan’s attendants, who will convey this prayer “In thanks for sovereignty, away from sight drive not the beggar?”
O Sufi! come; for bright is the mirror of the cup: That thou mayst see the brightness of the wine of ruby hue.
O Saki! arise; and give the cup: Strew dust on the head of the grief of time.
The splendor of youth’s time again belongeth to the garden; The glad tidings of the rose reacheth the bulbul sweet of song.
Last night from the Masjed towards the wine tavern our Pir came: O friends of the Path! after this, what is our plan?
Saki! with the light of wine, up-kindle the cup of ours. Minstrel! speak, saying: “The world’s work hath gone to the desire of ours.”
O! the splendor of the moon-beauty from the illumined face of Thine! The lustre of beauteousness from the chin-dimple of Thine!
The morning blossometh; and the cloud bindeth a veil: O companions! the morning cup! the morning cup!
I said: “O Sultan of lovely ones! show pity to this poor stranger.” He said: “In the desire of his own heart, loseth his way the wretched stranger.”
O chaste beloved! Who draweth the fastening of the veil of thee? O bird of Paradise! grain and water, who giveth thee?
The great curve that, into the bow, thy told eye-brow cast, In design of the blood of me, miserable, powerless, it cast.
From the fire of my heart, my chest in grief for the Beloved consumed. In this house, was a fire, that the house consumed.
O Saki! be the coming of the new year auspicious to thee: And these promises thou madest, let them not go from thy memory.
O fragrant morning breeze! The Beloved’s rest-place is where? The dwelling of that Moon, Lover-slayer, Sorcerer, is where?
The fast a side hath gone; and the Id hath come; and hearts have risen: In the wine-house, the wine hath come into tumult; and it is necessary to ask.
Went heart and faith; and the Heart-Ravisher with reproach arose, And said: “Sit not with me; for, from thee, safety hath risen.”
O Heart-ravisher! thou art not a speech-recognizer. Here, the fault is: When thou hearest the speech of people of heart speak not saying: “A fault it is.”
In every path of Islam, the image of Thy face fellow traveler of ours is. Ever, the perfume of Thy hair, the soul-informer of ours is.
From me intoxicated, is the desire of devotion and of covenant, and of rectitude; For, in Eternity without beginning, I became renowned for wine-drinking.
Blossomed is the red rose; and intoxicated is the nightingale; The invitation to merriment O Lovers, wine-worshipping!
Tress dishevelled; sweat expressed; lip laughing; intoxicated; Garment rent; song-singing; goblet in His hand;
Into the Magian’s cloister, came my Friend a goblet in His hand: With wine intoxicated, He with his eye intoxicated the wine-dirnkers.
By the Khwaja’s soul, and by ancient right, and by true covenant, That, at the breath of dawn, prayer for thy welfare is my companion.
With fancy for Thee, what desire for wine is ours? To the jar say: “Take thy head; for the jar-house is ruined.”
With a single hair of its, a thousand hearts, the tress bound, The path of a thousand remedies bound.
What men of our closed circle call “the Night of Power” to-night is. O Lord! from what constellation, this effect of fortune is?
When the form of thy heart alluring eye-brow, God established. In thy glances, the solving of my work, He established.
To him that hath chosen solitude, of the spectacle is what need? When the street of the Beloved is, of the desert is what need?
The chamber of vision of my eye is the dwelling of Thine: Show courtesy, and alight, for this house is the House of Thine.
O admonisher! Go about thy own work: what is this tumult? From the hand, my heart hath fallen: what hath befallen thee?
Since thy tress-tip, into the power of the breeze, fell, My distraught heart, into two pieces on account of grief, fell.
Come! For most unstable is the foundation of the Palace of Hope: Bring the cup; for the foundation of Life is on the wind.
Without the sun of Thy cheek, light for my day, hath remained not And of my life, save the blackest night, aught hath remained not.
Of the cypress and the pine, what need hath my garden? Our box-tree nurtured in the shade, is less than who?
Thanks be to God that the door of the wine-tavern open, is. In such a way that, my face of supplication upon its door is.
Though wine is joy exciting! and the breeze rose-enslaving, Drink not wine to the sound of the harp. For bold the Muhtaseb is.
To utter to thee the state of my heart is my desire: To hear news of my heart is my desire.
The court of the garden is joy-giving; and the society of friends, pleasant; Pleasant, be the time of the rose, whereby the time of wine-drinkers is pleasant.
Now that in the palm of the rose, is the cup of pure wine, In it praise, is the nightingale with a hundred thousand tongues.
At this time, a friend, who is free from defect, Is the goblet of pure wine, and the song-book.
The rose is in the bosom; wine in the hand; and the Beloved to my desire, On such a day, the world’s Sultan is my slave.
In the Street of the tavern, every holy traveler, that knew the Path The knocking at another door, the source of ruin knew.
From the wine’s sparkle, the Sufi knew the hidden mystery: Every one’s essence, by this ruby thou canst know.
The garden of lofty Paradise is the retreat of Darvishes: Grandeur’s source is the service of Darvishes.
In the snare of Thy tress, my heart entangled of itself is. Slay with a glance; for to it, punishment of itself is.
